


The Darkness Hummed

by augusteofarles



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Damen lost to Auguste, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sort Of, gonna get pretty dark in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:16:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augusteofarles/pseuds/augusteofarles
Summary: Six years ago, Damen had met Auguste on the fields of Marlas, on the brink of Akielos’ greatest victory.Six years ago, Damen had lost.Now, they spoke of the weather.





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you reckon they’re hiding something under all those layers?” Damen heard a soldier somewhere to his left ask.

“They have to hide the sticks up their asses somehow,” another answered, followed by a roar of laughter from the rest of the men. It took a grim glance from Nikandros to silence them.

The sun was high in the sky, warming up Damon’s bare shoulders. A childish need rose within him to cherish the warmth that reminded him of home. He let himself bask in it for a moment before reminding himself that he was a man grown, a prince with a duty to his people and his father and King. The warmth of the sun may have been as it would at home, but the chill in the air was wholly Veretian.

It did not take Damen very long to spot the golden head amongst the men before him. Auguste looked older than the last time Damen had seen him, adorned in blue and gold, more regal and powerful. He supposed he may have looked the same the last time he had seen him. Damen would not have noticed much else, other than the blood and grime that had covered them both. Now, Auguste was clean, perfect and effortlessly kingly.

Briefly, Damen realized that had Auguste been anyone but himself, he would certainly have peaked Damen’s interest.

“Our brother of Akielos,” said Auguste in Damen’s own language after they had both dismounted. The past was a heavy breathing thing between them. “It is my pleasure and honor to welcome you to Vere.” His accent was strong, but pleasant to the ears so that his words sounded as though they were meant to be spoken in such a way and Damen briefly wondered if there was  anything that King Auguste was only adequate in.

“The honor is all mine, King Auguste,” Damon said in almost perfect Veretian. Auguste smiled in a way that said,  _ very well, let’s have it your way,  _ and spoke Veretian for the rest of the ride.

In Veretian tradition, the royal family would greet their guests at the steps of their castle. Auguste traveling further to greet Damen and his men, was a gesture to honor the Akielon tradition, and the peace they were trying to broker. Damen was not so proud as to not recognize it.

The ride felt tediously long and uneventful, with Auguste inquiring on the quality of Damen’s long journey. Was the weather fair? Were the roads safe from bandits? Was his Exalted, King Theomedes in good health? Did Damen enjoy the Kelos river at the border? Auguste visited it quite often, with his brother, Prince Laurent. Perhaps they could visit again, if Damen would like.

It was mindless chatter meant for old friends reuniting and Damen felt as though in a dream. 

Six years ago, Damen had met Auguste on the fields of Marlas, on the brink of Akielos’ greatest victory. Six years ago, Damen had lost.

Now, they spoke of the weather.

Damen was not going to dwell.

“My father sends his deepest apologies for his absence,” Damen said, “and sends his best regards.” Auguste had already known that his invitation would be answered with the presence of Damen and not his father. It was simple formality to reaffirm it now.

The sun was close to setting, leaving behind a pink orange hue. If Damen were not in this foreign land, if he were at the edge of the white beaches of his homeland, in the balcony of his chambers, or at his father’s bedside, perhaps he would have taken a moment to appreciate its beauty. But it was the wind that his mind settled on, blowing cold air onto his bare arms and legs and threatening a shiver down his body. Damen would not give King Auguste the satisfaction.

“I was saddened to be informed that he would not be coming himself,” Auguste said, but what he was really saying was  _ I see that he did not wish to grace me with his presence, so he sends you instead. _

_ Let him think so _ Damen thought.  _ Let him think father is too busy ruling his own kingdom to bother with his. _

This time it wasn’t the wind that threatened to make him shiver. Every thought of his father was like a newly formed dagger through his heart. He had looked the worst on the last day, and remembering his sunken face was unbearable. He had begged him to refuse Auguste. To let Damen stay by his side.  _ You must be a different king than I,  _ he had said, voice barely a whisper.  _ Do not be seduced by thoughts of conquest. Go and make peace, but trust no one.  _ And so Damen had come, had left his father on his sickbed. 

“Your presence is highly appreciated, prince Damianos,” Auguste was saying, rousing him from the tunnel of his thoughts. “I hope you will find your stay pleasant.” If there was a hidden meaning behind those words, which, uttered from a Veretian’s mouth was a given, he hid it well.

The rest of the ride was a more quiet affair, and by the time the castle was in full view, the sun had fully set.

Even in the dark, it was overwhelming.

There were many things that Vere was known for. Vast green fields, cold weather and rainstorms, pomegranates, and, if you were to ask an Akielon, deceit and a lack of honor. But most of all, Damen recalled, they were know for the high towers of Arles.  _ The highest in all the lands,  _ Damen’s childhood teacher had said.

_ It’s so they can more easily look down at everyone else _ , Makedon had once told him, an arm slung around his shoulder after one too many drinks. 

Now, facing the castle, Damen decided that none of the stories had done them justice. 

They were ornate and ostentatious, monstrously towering over the surrounding land. Damen wondered how they would look without the many lights coming through the windows, without the moon and stars sprinkling a milky hue to the blackness of the night, they were spikes piercing through the night sky.  _ Like Dirmir’s trident, _ Damen thought solemnly. It would only be appropriate for a place like Vere to house the God of Shadows.

But different Gods ruled over Vere, Damen reminded himself, and he would find nothing of his home here. 

 

The story of its origins were as many as its towers. 

Legend told of Irus, the demigod, who, shunned by mortals, had begged the gods to give him a place among them and when they had refused him, had raised the towers from the ground up by sheer force, and climbed up into the skies. 

Others of minds less prone to fairytale believed that an old Veretian king had had the towers built for his queen, though some among them argued to this day that it was his pet and lover he had built them for, who had been homesick for the mountainous heights of his homeland.

They say that, sixteen years ago, Queen Hennike of Kempt had fallen to her death from the highest of the towers.

Damen took a last look at the skies and wondered how his father fared.

  
  


***

 

Hours later, Damen decided that Veretians were not only garish when it came to their architecture, but in all other things too. Being a prince, he was no stranger to things grandiose, but Veretians did not seem to know the meaning of subtle if the needlessly extravagant feast before him was anything to go by. 

“ _ Vere welcomes it’s Akielon brothers and sisters with open arms,”  _ Auguste was saying in Akielon, seemingly to accommodate the few Akielon delegates present.

“ _ Akielos thanks you for the honor and accepts your warm welcome,”  _ Damen said, raising his glass of wine too. 

“To new beginnings,” Auguste said when everyone had taken their seats, this time for Damen’s ears alone. Damen raised his glass and they drank.

Begrudgingly, Damen could see the amount of effort that Auguste had put into making their stay as comfortable and satisfying as possible. He spoke affably to Damen and to his men, retold stories of the hunting trip he had recently taken, and seemed to charm Damen’s men out of the tension that had been so pervasive all day. He had even taken the effort to include Akielon delicacies in the night’s courses, Damen noted with a hint of amusement and a shared knowing glance with Nikandros. It tasted nothing like it was supposed to, but it had served its purpose.  

Damen did not understand.

Had it been any other man, Damen would have taken his courteous efforts at face value.

_ Trust no one,  _ his father had said. Yet he had also said  _ make peace.  _

If this was a trap, if Auguste was only feigning and his talk of reconciliation and brotherhood were a mere trick, Damen failed to see the end result. 

After three more courses, a riveting attempt at Akielon music, and an abundance of wine, Damen was free to retire to bed.

The first thing he did when he entered his ridiculously extravagant chambers was write to his father. He wondered, briefly, if his letters would be interceded but quickly thought against it. He made efforts to stay weary, yet despite himself, Auguste seemed to Damen a man of honor.

It was a testament to his exhaustion that sleep came to him easily.

 

He rose in the early hours of the morning, feeling a chill in the air that he was unaccustomed to. It was not winter yet and Damen wondered how much colder it was going to get. He briefly considered staying in bed, avoiding the coming day and it’s many activities that were surely to feel more like tasks.

He pulled his covers off and rose.

The windows near his bed were large and provided an easy view of the castle grounds and the surrounding land. Down in the courtyard, he could see the castle servants busy at their various tasks, women carrying water, others large trays with food, two men were tending to horses. All of it done in their strict Venetian laces. Damen wondered how it is they managed to move, let alone tend to an enormous castle.

Off in the distance, he could see concrete giving way to the vast and wild Venetian forest with its myriad of trees. It was an endless green vision with spots of yellow, a reminder that spring would give way to autumn soon. 

Optimistically, he wondered if his father was over his illness. He let himself imagine a messenger riding towards Vere with the good news of his recovery. Any second now he would appear through the trees, down the winding road.

Damen did not have long to let himself daydream, and his reverie was interrupted with a knock on his door. 

“Enter," Damen said.

A young servant with dark black hair entered and, with obvious nervousness and a courteous bow said, “Forgive my disturbance your highness, His Majesty is inquiring if you would like to accompany him for breakfast.”

And so Damen found himself in the vast royal gardens having breakfast with Auguste.

Much like during the feast the night before, the table was filled with more types of food than necessary for one course, an assortment of fruits, honeyed nuts, three different types of cheese and bread. The left side of the table, as last night, was filled with Akielon cuisine, a large plate full of pancakes topped with honey, sesame and cheese, which was clearly supposed to be  _ Staitites,  _ though they looked too dark to be so, and an even larger plate filled with barley bread dipped in wine and topped with figs. 

Damen wasn’t sure whether to scoff or be impressed. 

“Did you have a restful night,” Auguste asked, taking a sip from his glass of what Damen assumed was water mixed with a medley of fruits.

“I did,” Damen said, “my men and I are grateful for your hospitality.” 

“It is my pleasure,” Auguste said. “Please, help yourself,” he added, pointing to the small table between them, though his own plate was empty. Damen did not remember seeing him eat the night before either. 

It was with a self aware pettiness that Damen chose the barley bread and fig. It was much more true to the food at home than the dishes from the feast, though admittedly, only a fool of a chef would be unable to mix three ingredients together. 

“I understand this may feel strange to you,” Auguste said, “given our history.”

They were going to do this now, Damen realized. From the beginning, they had tiptoed around the subject and it was surprisingly relieving to finally breach it. Like a scab that one wants to scratch, knowing it may open the wound once more. 

“It is my greatest wish that we can move past it," Auguste said. 

_ Easier to play the gracious winner,  _ Damen thought bitterly.

Damen did not consider himself a sore loser. Since the age of thirteen, he had learned the importance of honor in combat. 

_ Fight with honor,  _ father always said,  _ and if you lose, do so with honor. _

And so he had, the few times that he had lost in his youth, always with a smile and a respectful pat on the opponent’s shoulder. It was the way of men, after all.

It was only that... Damen had not _expected_ to lose at Marlas. If he were to close his eyes now, he’d be able to see it as it was, feel the beating pulse in his head, his mud soaked hands and Auguste above him. The utter feeling of shock of what had taken place.

At times, when the thoughts had haunted him into the late hours of the night, the memory had morphed into something different in his mind.

Auguste, standing above him head held high, with a menacing grin in place of the bewildered look he had actually had as though he had not expected a victory, and Damen is sure he had not. His loss would have been no surprise. Damen had been so close to striking the final cut, one step forward and Auguste would have been dead. 

But then he had _stumbled_.

A foolish mistake of a green boy that he had not made since the age of 13.

As though he had tripped on thin air. Damen remembers saying so, later sitting in a small tent with Nikandros by his side. 

“It is in the past, as you say,” Damen said, bringing himself back to the present. When Auguste looked his way with obvious suspicious in his eyes, Damen continued,

“you fought honorably, in a fair fight and you won. I have no qualms with you.” If he expected words of gratitude for sparing his life, Damen would not provide them, the words a shard of led in his throat. 

Damen could not decipher Auguste’s expression then. He opened his mouth as though to say something in reply but then closed it again, looking ahead into the vast field of trees facing them.

Perhaps it was the bluntness of Damen’s words that had showcased a hesitancy in Auguste for the first time since Damen’s arrival.  _ Good. _

_ “ _ It is of importance to both our kingdoms that we become allies,” Auguste said. “To build bridges in place or walls." He picked up his glass of water but did not drink from it.

"When danger comes," he said, "it will come for Vere and Akielos alike.”

“Danger?” Damen asked, “where from?”

Auguste turned to him with a gaze that was an inquiry, the act of looking a man up and down to judge the quality of his character without actually doing so. The silence stretched between them for some time so that Damen assumes that he would receive no answer. But then Auguste spoke.

“Anywhere,” he said. It seemed to come from somewhere deep within him and once again, Damen had a hard time deciphering it. It seemed that being needlessly vague was a Veretian trait.

Before either of them could say anything more, a guard entered the alcove.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Auguste said as though he had made this request earlier and it had been broken.

The guard hesitated for a moment, but seemed to find his bearings quickly.

“Word from the road, your Majesty.”

Whatever this meant, Auguste’s expression changed and the guard handed him a small piece of paper that was more a note than a letter. Damen looked ahead, giving Auguste the privacy that was expected at moments like this. 

Auguste read it quickly, with a mix of furrowed brows and folded it back.

“When did it arrive?”

“Just now, your majesty.” 

Auguste nodded and said, “thank you Lazar,” and the guard was gone.

Whatever the letter had said seemed to have lightened Auguste’s strange mood and talk of Marlas and of danger was forgotten.

“How would you like to see the fighting grounds?” he said.

***

“They cannot possibly eat all of this,” Nikandros whispered into his ear, the surrounding noise giving them a moment of privacy. They were sat at a grand feast once more, just as grand as the night before, if not ridiculously more so. 

“Perhaps they think we do?" Damen said, "what with being barbarians." This threw Nik into a bout of laughter that was a sure sign of having drank a lot of wine. Damen felt that his own mind was more at ease, the tension in his body lessened some. 

He wasn’t sure if it had been the relief of training again, exhorting his energy into a fight and feeling the heavy weight of a sword in his hand that had put him in good spirits. Or perhaps it was the wine, Damen thought, taking another sip. Vere may be ridiculous in all other things, but Damen could admit to himself that they had damn good wine. 

Auguste was once more speaking excitedly at his side, recounting a story that had apparently been a funny one if Damen had not missed it, judging from the laughter around the room. Even his own men were smiling, albeit in a more refrained manner.

It was good to have his own people here, in this place that felt so foreign, Nikandros a solid comfort by his side. On his right was Biton, a slimy dishonest man that father had insisted Damen bring along. His purpose in his father's court had always been a mystery to Damen, his talents lying in nothing but tricks and gossip. He was good at catching lies, as his father had said, but only because he himself was a master of them. 

Damen found himself watching the rest of the guests interact, the intricate designs on the walls, the strict Veretian clothing that made Damen's head hurt. 

Off to the distance, Damen noticed the guard from the alcove, Lazar, looking his way only to realize it was Pallas he was looking at. Pallas had surely noticed, but seemed less inclined to return his absurdly obvious gaze. 

But Lazar did not stop there. Lazar raised his glass of wine and  _ winked  _ at Pallas. Damen almost laughed. 

It was only the arrival of another guard that seemed to halt Lazar’s explicit efforts. The shorter man whispered something in his ear, prompting Lazar to start walking their way. For a brief moment, Damen wondered if he had built up the courage to woo Pallas right in the pretense of his king and a foreign enemy prince, but it was Auguste he stopped by, seemingly relaying the message from the previous guard quietly enough so that it was for his ears alone. Auguste nodded, and Lazar made a languorous walk back to his place, not missing the opportunity to walk passt Pallas. They were further away from the royal table so that Damen could not hear what it was he said, but could make a few guesses based on Pallas’ reaction.

“If you would excuse me for a moment, Prince Damianos,” Auguste said. Damen nodded and Auguste rose from his seat and exited the hall, followed by Lazar and a few other guards.

Auguste was gone for a longer time than was expected of a King hosting a neighboring prince, and Biton, always prepared for the opportunity, gave a stern few words about this fact to Damen, until he was shushed back into his place. 

Damen, on his part, was considering another glass of wine when he saw Auguste return. He saw him walk back to his seat and for a brief moment, Damen wondered if it was the wine that caused him to see two blonds instead of one.

“I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Laurent,” Auguste was saying but Damen’s mind seemed not to wish to work in tune with his body. He knew the proper thing was to rise and give a proper greeting but Damen was left sitting, glancing up at the stranger in front of him.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he recalled that King Aleron had had two sons and not one, and that at some point in his life Damen had been aware of this fact. He remembered conversations in a war tent on the fields of Marlas. Talk of what would happen after they had had their victory. If the heir was killed and the king along with him, would the younger prince be spared? He thinks that Auguste may have even mentioned him during the journey to the castle grounds. 

But the image that he had so sparingly had in his mind of the boy prince, always an afterthought of Auguste, and the man standing in front of him seemed as separate as two cliffs. 

It was Nikandros that roused him out of his stupor with a nudge and Damen found himself rising.

“It is an honor to meet you Prince Damianos,” Laurent was saying, his lips a soft pink against his pale marble skin. “I hope you can forgive my lateness, the weather in Kempt is quite precarious.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Prince Laurent.” Damen said and when they shook hands in greeting Laurent’s forearm felt cold in his, likely due to the cold weather that he spoke of, the laces on his sleeve soft. “The honor is all mine.”

He looked like Auguste, except that he seemed softer, more youthful and the gold of his hair and the blue of his eyes was a shade lighter. 

They exchanged a few more words that Damen realized he had forgotten as soon as he had taken his seat in the manner that one does when faced with a perilous situation, thoughts more firmly on other facts aside from words spoken. 

It was a struggle, the rest of the night, to be sat on Auguste’s right, while Laurent was on his left, so that if he wished to take a glance in his direction he was met with Augueste instead. He wore a single golden circlet on his head, exaggerating the intricate braids in his hair, that Damen realized he had not seen on any other Venetian man. Perhaps it was of Kemptian fashion, his mind provided. He had mentioned returning from Kempt, had he not? It suited him, seemed to outline his features more, his high cheekbones and delicate chin. His face was pale but if one were to look closely, and Damen was, his cheeks were slightly stained red, perhaps from the hours riding in the cold.

“Have you lost your mind?”

It took Damen a moment to realize that Nikandros had been speaking.  He was looking at him intently.

“What?” 

The room was filled with music and conversation so loud that even if Nikandros were shouting, one would have to be close to him to hear, yet he took the time to look around before speaking as though to make sure no one would eavesdrop. 

“You make it obvious.”

“I don’t know what you speak of,” Damen said, knowing exactly of what he spoke. 

“Damianos,” Nik said, the years of understanding and knowing Damen’s mannerisms heavy in his expression, “do not forget why we are here.”

Damen took a sip of his wine and found himself in better spirits. 

"To make peace."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr @augusteofarles


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the summary cus it felt too long.

When Laurent had been six years old, he had asked Auguste if it was possible to feel a difference when one crossed a border of a country and entered another. Auguste had been puzzled at the question but had answered, already accustomed to Laurent’s ever increasing curiosities.

“Perhaps,” he had said. “Gradually. The weather may be different, the buildings foreign.  It’s people would speak another language, worship other Gods.”

It had not entirely been the answer that Laurent had been seeking. Or it was more accurate to say that Laurent had asked the wrong question. He had wondered if he would feel the change in himself, sense the difference in the air, in his body and in his mind but Auguste, for all his best intentions, had not understood. 

Laurent rode against the wind in the darkness of the night, and realized his brother had not altogether been wrong. The weather had certainly changed when he had crossed the Kemptian border and entered Vere, though there had not been anything gradual about it, the coldness leaving him the further he rode. Yet there had been an eariness in the Kemptian air, a joining of two extremes. A sense of elation and dread all at once, like walking through a heavy downpour of rain, overwrought by the angry skies but feeling a childish excitement for the raindrops on your skin. 

It took Laurent some time to realize that he had ridden so far past Jord that he could no longer see him when looking back, the wind blowing cold air onto his face. 

Jord was surely furious with him, Laurent knew but he was not too pleased with him, himself to care. He had already cost Laurent a day’s worth of travel. The Akielons had surely already arrived in Vere and Auguste had been left alone to greet them, without Laurent by his side. The thought itself sent a cold shiver down his spine that had little to do with the wind. 

_ If we get caught in a windstorm, you’ll not be arriving at all, Laurent,  _ Jord had said. 

The castle was only now coming into view, and the night was already dark. Laurent could feel his horse’s heaving breaths, no doubt feeling betrayed by Laurent’s uncharacteristic insistence on wearing him out. He would make sure to make his penance through a basket of apples and days’ rest.

Laurent wondered if the note he had sent with the messenger had reached Auguste, and if it would have lessened his anger at him, though he doubted it greatly. 

He slowed, as he saw the large gates, the familiar gardens surrounding it until he came to a full stop, his horse bewildered at the abrupt change of pace. 

He wasn’t sure what had made him stop. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Akielon prince was in his country, in his home, in close vicinity to Auguste. Perhaps it was the thought that Auguste was cross with him or that he was returning to a home that had felt like a prison as of late. 

He didn’t realize how long he waited, unmoving, until he heard the hooves of a single horse riding up and the familiar presence of Jord by his side. 

“I’m surprised your hair is still intact,” he said, a bit out of breath, and when Laurent didn’t answer he said, “are you alright?” 

“Fine.” 

Jord gave him a look that was all too familiar for Laurent’s liking and said, “There is nothing that he will not forgive you for.” 

It was, at times, overwhelming to know that Jord had come to know him so well. The idea that someone other than Auguste would be able to understand his hesitancies without being told directly was unnerving and comforting all at once. At some point, over the years, Laurent had stopped lying to himself and accepted that Jord was more than just a guard.

“Are you certain he’ll forgive  _ you _ ?” 

Jord let out a chuckle and said, “if we’re lucky, he’ll give me an easy death.” 

“He’d never want your death,” Laurent said because it was true and because it was easier than saying  _ I would never let that happen.  _

“Come,” he said, and they rode onward, down the slight slope and towards the large gates. 

Someone must have alerted Auguste of their arrival because already he could see him standing by the large entrance. Laurent stopped, dismounted, giving the rains of his horse to a servant nearby. 

It had been more than a month since he had left and he had not realized how much he had missed Auguste until he was here, standing before him.

“Your majesty,” Jord said after dismounting, and giving a deep bow. 

They stood there in front of Auguste like two schoolchildren who had just been caught skipping lessons. Laurent would have laughed were it any other situation. 

He smiled, for a moment unsure what to expect and then Auguste was closing the distance between them and embracing him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, a hand on his shoulder, his eyes looking up and down his body as though he was going to find bleeding wounds and broken bones. 

“I’m well,” Laurent said. “Auguste I-”

“No matter,” Auguste said, leading them inside. “Come. Join the feast.” 

Though he tried to hide it well, Laurent could see the stiffness in Auguste, the bubbling emotion under the surface that he was not letting out. Laurent wanted to speak to him, to get him alone and explain himself, but he was met with only silence. 

He stopped by his chambers, changing his dirty and worn out riding clothes for ones more appropriate for a royal feast, the Kemptian furs for the Veretian laces. The word royal referred to not only Laurent and Auguste on this night, and the thought was incessantly in the back of his mind. 

He squared his shoulders and looked himself in the mirror. He had requested the thin circlet that he often wore to be brought to him, though his servants had displayed the more extravagant crowns that he owned, perhaps for the occasion of hosting a neighboring prince. Laurent did not need jewelry to face a man like Damianos. 

The thin braids in his hair had lost their smoothness though they had kept intact even through storm and wind, as the old attendant at the court of Katanes had promised.  _ Braids will stay strong,  _ she had said in her broken Veretian even after Laurent had twice insisted that he understood Kemptian well enough,  _ like true warrior. My word, or the Gods punish me.  _ Laurent wasn’t sure how braids could increase the strength of a warrior, or why the Kemptian Gods would punish old Vandrad if the wind had ruined Laurent's hair, but they were intact as she had promised and the Gods could rest easy. 

Laurent took a last look in the mirror and decided that he was not a man who avoided things, but jumped into them swiftly.

He exited his chambers, surprised to find that Auguste had waited for him. Again he tried to speak to him, but it seemed Auguste had waited for formality’s sake, rather than for a chance to chat. The walk felt excruciatingly long, Auguste avoiding his gaze and when they entered the room, it was filled with sound and laughter, the guests already a few cups into the feast it seemed. Yet when Laurent moved his gaze to the far center, the sounds in the room seemed to falter and then mute altogether, a rare occasion for Laurent’s ever active mind. 

He was sat at the center of the table, taking up the space in a way that only an heir to a kingdom could, limbs straight yet ever comfortable. Laurent seemed to see him in pieces, the brown of his curls, the golden laurel on his head, his large form, and the red cape draped over the back of his chair.  _ This man almost drove a sword through Auguste’s heart _ , he thought, feeling dizzy with anger and a numbing sort of dread. 

“Laurent.”

He had not realized he had stopped walking. Auguste did not need to say anything more.  _ We need as many allies as we can find,  _ Auguste had said so many times that the words had become a mantra over the years. Laurent nodded, a silent promise to be civil, and kept walking. 

“I’d like to introduce you to my brother, Laurent,” Auguste said. Daminos lifted his brown eyes, and seemed to be puzzled for a moment. Perhaps he felt it beneath him to stand for a formal greeting, Laurent thought but Damianos’ eyes kept moving over him and that evoked a different sort of irritation in him. He stood, finally, eyes still dazedly on Laurent. 

“It is an honor to meet you, Prince Damianos,” Laurent said, voice even, extending his arm in greeting. He waited for the feeling his touch would evoke. Anger, surely. Disgust. A tingling discomfort. A feeling of being trapped and everything else foul. 

But when their hands touched, Damen’s larger one in his, it was warmth that he felt. The smell of summer rain. First snow, wet grass under your feet. The comfort of a book by the fireside. Sleep heavy limbs in the early hours of waking. 

Laurent pulled his hand away, breaking contact. “I hope you can forgive my lateness, the weather in Kempt is quite precarious.”

His senses were fooling him, Laurent decided, the knowledge that they never had before heavy in his mind. 

Except that they had. Once. Of one man.

But uncle had been...like no other, Laurent thought, feeling his lungs tighten in his chest. Even his senses had been no match for him. 

But uncle was dead, his name forgotten, and Laurent was not the green boy that he had once been. 

Damianos was a deceitful and honorless brute who, six years ago, would have ended his brother’s life with no thought of remorse, and no good impression would change that. 

 

***

“I’ve heard the Akielon prince likes blonds.” He had meant it to sound teasing and light but his own voice sounded stilted to his ears. 

They had come to a point during a feast where the guests were not so strictly bound to their seats any longer, moving around and chatting with one another, some even dancing. Off to the corner, he could see Damianos chatting with Vanes. Or rather listening to Vanes’ chatter, her eyes filled with such unsuppressed lust that, were there no others in the room, it would have had the council talking of indecency for ages. It was amusing, seeing him so uncomfortable but, apparently, too polite to put an end to it. More importantly, it gave Laurent the needed privacy. 

Auguste had been quiet since they’d entered the dining hall. Rather, it was more accurate to say that he had barely spoken a word to Laurent. He had done his kingly duty, spoken with courtiers and delegates and entertained the Akielon prince and his men to the fullest of Veretian hospitality, but Laurent could see the edgy nervousness that was present. No other would notice it, Laurent was sure. Having spent all of his life watching Auguste, Laurent could see things that others could not. He’d known to expect it but it stung, nonetheless. He had hoped he would have been met with anger, a few heated words, even a fight. He would have preferred anything to the quiet disappointment that he was greeted with. 

“Does he?”

August quietly took a sip from his cup and did not turn his way.

“Yes. I imagine his harem of slaves is full of yellow hair. Have you met any of them yet?” 

“They have not brought any slaves for the journey,”  Auguste said into his plate, “and it would do you well not to speak of them. We cannot afford to disrespect their customs.”

“I had no such intention,” Laurent said. There was a long pause in which they both stared ahead.

It had been years since Laurent had cared for another’s opinion of him. Auguste was the one exception in his life and his anger sent a cold shiver down his spine. Auguste, who had known Laurent all his life and could read him like a book, noticed the shift and the next time he spoke, his voice was softer.

“Eat something,” he said, “you’ve had a long journey.”

Laurent picked up his fork and halfheartedly stuck it into whatever food the servant had placed onto his plate. The journey truly had been tiring, and combined with Auguste’s disapproval and the presence of his almost killer in the same room made his limbs feel heavier than stone. He could sense the creeping ache building behind his eyes, what surely would turn into a full blown headache soon. It was this that delayed his realization of the foreign food in his mouth. Not unpleasant, if not too spicy. Looking around, as though seeing it a new, Laurent noticed the variety of meals that were present. It was an extravagant table, fitting for the presence of royalty from two countries. Cured meats and soups adorned the table with different types of bread and rice. The smell of spice and wine was overwhelming yet pleasant. Laurent saw the traditional Veretian delicacies that he’d grown up eating and a few that he failed to recognize, including the one on his plate. It was a testament to his exhaustion that it took so long for Laurent to realize.

“Akielon food?”

“As I said, it’s important for them to feel welcomed.”

Laurent nodded. It was a wise move. 

“I had meant to be here for their arrival,” Laurent said. “Had Jord not been afraid of a bit of storm, I would have.”

“Had you not left to begin with, you would not have to face a storm.”

_ There lies the problem,  _ Laurent wanted to say,  _ you do not let me face a drizzle of rain let alone a storm.  _ He kept quiet, the past heavy in his mind. 

“And Jord is doing his job, keeping you safe. It would not hurt you to listen to him from time to time.”

Poor loyal Jord. Laurent did often wonder if Auguse had given him the task of guarding his troublesome younger brother out of cruelty, or a deep trust. Laurent caught a glimpse of him at the table, sitting by Orlant and stuffing food in his mouth. He looked tired, worn out, a sort of glazed look in his eyes.

“I think that I may have finally driven him mad,” Laurent said.

There was a pause and then, with a shake of his head, Auguste gave a small but helpless laugh. Laurent smiled.

With a long and tired sigh, that spoke of years of experience with a disobedient little brother, and an inability to stay cross with him for too long, Auguste turned to him.

“How was Kempt?”

Laurent felt the heavy weight of his brother’s disapproval fall from his shoulders.

“Cold,” he said, “too many blonds.”

“Didn’t feel special enough?”

“No.”

In truth, he had enjoyed both the cold and being another head among the crowds. Anonymity was a rare pleasure for a prince, and Laurent had basked in it for as long as he could. 

He thought of the secret night in the streets of Auonar, the thrill of being among a crowd who did not stop to look at him twice. He thought of raging blue seashores. Of Jord, his long suffering stares, and later in a half forgotten pub finally relaxed after a few drinks, telling his prince and liege, the filthiest joke that Laurent had ever heard. He thought of cold crisp air and starry skies. He thought of deep forgotten caves. 

A part of him wanted to tell August about it, about how it had felt like the times in their childhood and how he’d wished Auguste had been with him to see it. He kept quiet once more. It had been years since they’d shared in an adventure, and Auguste wasn’t the carefree prince he had once been.

“You could have warned me before you left,” he said. The words had been hanging between them since Laurent’s arrival and Auguste had finally voiced them. Laurent preferred it to the silence.

“Would you have let me?” 

Auguste opened his mouth as though to say something but closed it again. 

“I was worried,” he said quietly, after some time had passed.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent said, “It’s only that-” Laurent didn’t know.  _ I woke up one morning and found myself riding away.  I felt trapped in this place.  _ Auguste would not understand. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. He had just left, and that was all there was to it. It was so unlike himself, to be lost for words. 

“I needed to leave. I could not stay any longer.” 

He met his brother’s eyes and saw the ever present look of worry that ailed him since Laurent could remember him, and Laurent, always the cause. 

For a moment it seemed like Auguste would say something else. He took a sip of his wine instead.

The room was bursting with sound around him, increasing more and more with each cup of wine. It was overwhelming, too many people, too many thoughts and feelings all bulked up in one room that seemed to get smaller the longer Laurent was there.

There was a tree, deep in the gardens of the palace, hidden in a way so that others seemed to be unaware of it, it’s branches large with a promise of solitude. When Laurent had been a boy and when the crowds had become overbearing on his mind, it was where he had found his solace. When he had first sneaked off during a grand feast, it was Auguste who had found him. His father had been furious with him for causing such a frenzy, but Auguste, as always, had come to his defense.

_ I felt too much,  _ Laurent had simply said, unable to describe the newfound whirlwind in his mind that seemed to increase by the day. Auguste had smiled then and said,  _ It’s going to be alright _ and Laurent, for the first time and not the last, had felt the contrast of Auguste’s true feelings and the calm smile on his face. He had let himself bask in the relief of his words anyway.

“It’s called  _ Melas Zomos,”  _ Auguste said, bringing him back to the present.

“What?” 

“The food in your plate. Do you like it?”

Laurent was glad for the change of subject, but he knew his brother well enough to still see the creases of remaining concern on his face, that seemed to have become permanent over the years. 

“Less bland than I thought it would be, given it’s origins.” 

Auguste gave a true laugh at that. 

“It’s good to have you back,” he said.

“The kingdom is still intact,” Laurent said with false surprise.

“Barely so.”

 

Off to the corner, Vanes had become even more animated, likely due to the presence of the Kyros of Ios, whose name Laurent was having trouble recalling, who seemed to have a constant look of dissatisfaction on his face. It seemed Akielons were far too simple to feign emotion. Or perhaps they simply lacked the necessary manners. Laurent considered intervening, reigning Vanes back and was met with brown eyes staring back at him. Damianos, it seemed, was not too interested in Vanes’ tales after all. Laurent saw him momentarily surprised at being caught, but then, ridiculously, he smiled and raised his cup. Laurent turned his head.

“How do you like our new allies?” he said. 

“Well enough,” Auguste said. “He seems a man of honor.”

“A man of honor,” Laurent said, the disbelief bleeding through his words. He could have screamed were they in private. “He almost-”

“It was war,” Auguste said, simply. An end to the conversation, as it always was when it came to talk of Marlas. 

Laurent wanted to argue. To remind Auguste not to trust so easily. To remember who Damianos was.  But it was such a relief to see him smile his easy smile, that was rarer by the day, to hear him speak, to know that he wasn’t angry with him any longer. Laurent stayed quiet.  

Melas Zomos was proving to be better than expected and Laurent considered the chances of Damianos noticing a second serving on his plate. Perhaps if Vanes got his attention once more, or if Laurent pretended to be unaware of the new serving. 

 

“You look tired, Laurent” Auguste said. “You may retire early, if you’d like.”

“And miss a chance to chat with our new friends?” 

“Laurent,” Auguste said in his knowing way, “be civil.”

Laurent smiled and said, "aren't I always?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: Damon's thirstiness continues

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @augusteofarles


End file.
